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Neobotanist Oct 2019
perhaps i had it all backwards,
and we are not the more evolved spirits of animals, and animals are not the more evolved spirits of plants

perhaps we are trying to become that which a plant already is:
a converter of suffering into purity, of darkness into light

just as with each in-breath, the plant takes in my suffering
and on exhale, converts it into loving oxygen,
which we drink in hungrily, yet unknowingly,

and just as each spiraling ray of sun is synthesized into pure life energy,
relinquishing the need for consumption of another self,

perhaps we too need to become more like plants,
and not the other way around.

as aspiring plant-beings,
we too can breathe in all that is
and exhale all that is to become.
Neobotanist Jul 2019
Plants and Music





Life and Growth

Divine Connection



Virtual Reality


You think it's great that interracial is finally accepted in the mainstream?

Wait till there is acceptance and support for interspecies.
Neobotanist Jun 2019
There definitely exists within me still
a strong, insatiable desire
to create a hauntingly beautiful piece of music
for the world.

But I am clouded over with disillusionment.
I swim through the corridors of life,
aware at least conceptually,
that there is purpose in my being here,
but unable to extricate myself from the grips of sorrow,
which has quickly morphed into an ever-present,
underlying state of low-level misery.

Awareness from my previous forays into the other side—
having once before pierced the veil—
that all is as it should be,
that there is an aching beauty to absolutely everything,
that all one needs to do is accept one’s very isness,

does not save me now.

I surrender to the feeling.
I let it swallow me.
Neobotanist Jun 2019
So much influence
and quietness

Do I make sense?
I think not.

Even my own words don't make much sense to me.

My eyes see.
My brain analyzes, collects evidence to assure me of my existence
in this hallway,
on this grassy field,
throughout this dimension.

My steps remind me of
my weight,
my mass,
and my movements through the air,
thick with swarms of friendly and unfriendly,
magnetic creatures.

Quickly, they attach,
they swarm—the feelers,
the projectors of reality.

I sense we move backwards through time,
too many eons to count,
too many mistakes to fix,
and too many breaths taken, unwillingly.

Conscious only to the level of awareness,
but not awake enough to really see past the fog—
I see myself cluttered with thoughts of self acceptance,
material, and form, dense and crowded.

Easy to get distracted, easier still to pretend you're just sad,
easiest to fixate because we were planted
into these animal clothes,
and we just

Dense and dumb but also beautiful with flaws,
and beautiful with limited capacity,
and so tender and sweet.

You can't fault us;
I can't fault me;
so we just exist.

Trying to do better,
eyes fluttering, navigating,
swimming through creatures,
and feeling forgotten, and lonely,
and blind to the interconnected web.

So instead,
I count days
and live in boxes
and eat sweet, frozen green grapes
and days pass backwards
until I am born again.
Neobotanist May 2019
Yesterday the sea urchins spoke to me
in their soft plant language—
that is, in that soft plant voice of theirs,
which crept up my limbs,
found my tender spots, sneaky tendrils,
and tinged my skin with violet.
Yesterday, too, the moon jellies touched me with their oral arms—
that is, with their blackberry-stained fingers,
which flooded my ears, settled in the cochlea,
put me in an eternal slumber. 
That night I had vivid dreams,
and like some girlish doe,
I fawned over the impermanence,
the fragility of "human."
All I could see through the thick haze
was the messy lagoon-sea of intimate emotions,
and I discovered the true algae nature
of our marbled, purple universe.
Languidly listening
to the lingering language of your tongue, 
half-delirious, lugubrious, mouthful,
I dreamed
that you would linger longer.
That your peach-sweet and honey kisses 
might become lethargic and lay low, 
lazily love me.
Neobotanist May 2019
You stole me away,
brought me to the Bitter Blue,
where only mermaids go,
showed me the complexities of sugar-spun webs.

And when we hunched over,
squinting to better see the intricacies,
 I glimpsed your milky arachnid lashes.
We peeled poppy petals
and made garlands of lilies.

And when I fell into nettles,
you licked away the trichomes.

We turned up big, breathing stones,
crushed up cicadas.
I fell asleep in a bed of gardenias, 
and in my slumber you
spoiled me with jewels of cosmine
and told me even the radiolaria are listening.
Neobotanist May 2019
that hot air circulating through empty spaces between limbs,
licking sticky skin

that night air smell

golden skin and salty beads of sweat

you, a constant summertime year round
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